


these lips in holy silence sealed

by velificatio



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 18th Century, Choir boy, Crossdressing, F/M, Historical, Human Furniture, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Power Imbalance, Self-Harm, Shaving, Singing, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism, Watersports, Wingfic, tightlacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velificatio/pseuds/velificatio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has a lot in life, Arthur has a destiny to usher in. When their paths intersect neither will ever be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these lips in holy silence sealed

_Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown--_

_\--I have not yet forgot myself to stone._

**Eloisa to Abelard** , Alexander Pope

 

Arthur could no longer recall a time when he felt himself to be human. Pious and insignificant, yes, but not merely human.

They say it was a miracle his mother Genevieve conceived, for so long she and her husband Francis believed her womb to be barren that they had practiced asceticism for years. Even more miraculous was that she survived his birth. He came into the world misshapen in appearance, but squalling, alive. Two bizarre humps were on each side of his back and his lower anatomy was of such a state that the both his parents were unsure whether they had a son or daughter.

Genevieve was bedridden for many nights afterwards and Francis would lay their child atop her chest, pray and flagellate himself before the two of them. The Almighty Father graced him for his devotion; Genevieve recovered from her fever.

They named their child Arthur, for his purity had helped protect Genevieve as a king protects his people.

Arthur was raised devout, a disciple of the Lord and the child of two villeins who tended to the land of a wealthy French lord. They lived in a rented house on his property, two rooms between them. To serve was his trueborn destiny, he tended to the horse stables when not on the farm. His malformation made his balance unsteady and he knew the pain of a lash well in time.

It was during his eighth summer that the humps on his back began to shift, grow outward. An agonizing transformation, often times he’d lay awake on his stomach, crying while his mother frantically recited prayers at his bedside. Many times she would have to cover his mouth to stifle his screams.

Then one morning she fell in awe before the sight of him. For through his period of anguish the lumps had grown out, like a flower blossoming in the springtime, into wings. White feathers sprouted from their flesh.

“ _Angel._ ” Genevieve had whispered. “ _My child, an angel of our Lord_.”

His parents beheld him in fear and wonder. To his mother, it was a sign Arthur had been blessed with a higher purpose than their own. To his father, it was cause for worry. That he would be taken from them, sullied, killed.

At night his parents were visited by an angel called Saitiel, clothed in flowing white robes. "Your son was crafted from the hands of Our Father, born to usher in great change." He told them. "However he is not yet ready to fulfill this mission. And so you must conceal his true nature."

Arthur would never forget the first eve of what became their ritual.

Francis filled his small wooden cup with ale, over and over, until Arthur’s world became fuzzy. Still he recalled the silver flash of his father’s knife, the tears in his eyes, his mother’s weeping as she bound him to his cot, stuffed his mouth with a rag. And the pain, the all-consuming fire of agony as the bones of his wings were broken in his father’s hands. Blood streaked chunks of white feathers as Francis cut away his flesh and bone. He did not understand why save for his mother telling him it must be done for him to be safe.

Arthur prayed for mercy, then for death, anything to end his pain. The Lord seemed only to hear the prayers of his mother, who pled for forgiveness and his survival. For days on end he feared so much as the shadow of his father, the sound of his footsteps and cried at the sight of him with a blade.

Relief would not be granted to him. Within a month Arthur found himself once more beside himself with pain, as the bones of his wings began the slow process of growing back. So it began that he would be bound time and time again, granted only brew and the word of God for comfort as his wings were removed once more. Always in the cover of night after they’d grown out too much to be contained within the tight fabric binding his mother fashioned for him. 

“ _You will endure_.” She would tell him, her voice strained but fierce. “ _You are not the same as your father and I, Arthur. God has blessed you for a reason. A purpose greater than this. For that you will suffer, and endure.”_

Arthur never ceased wondering of the comfort one could find in being so certain of a purpose. And why such grace eluded him.

 


End file.
